


When the Crypt Doors Creak and the Tombstones Quake

by JQ (musicmillennia)



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Actual Garbage, F/M, Ghosts, Haunted Mansion AU, M/M, Melodramatic Romantic Travesties
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-04-28 21:24:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5106236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/JQ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(That ColdFlash Haunted Mansion AU showing up a day late to the Halloween Party without Starbucks.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Ball Masque

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coldflashtrash](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=coldflashtrash).



> I'll fix the summary later.
> 
> I typed up a few paragraphs of this and then I thought "heyyy I would like to see what Queen of the Landfill thinks" and I didn't think she'd actually like it????
> 
> But, yeah. Here it is. Wasn't supposed to be stretched out, but someone close to me just tried to, y'know, off themselves. So I would like to throw myself into this trash and get comfy.
> 
> THERE IS NO SCHEDULE FOR UPDATES. Because. I just can't do that right now.

The party was in full swing by the time he finished the letter. Cheerful music echoed along every beautiful crevice of Queen's Manor, coupled by the voices of numerous guests. His letter was signed and sealed as quickly as he could; the cacophony would be more than enough to hurry his intended recipient's entrance.

With quick steps, he traversed the maze of hallways with a sure gait. After all this time, he knew this mansion like the back of his hand - this route in particular he knew by heart. A pained frown carved its way onto his face as he slipped his letter under the door. Just as he heard movement beyond, he made for the library as fast as he could. He couldn't risk interruption.

Once in the library, he squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed tears. This was the only way, he knew; after all that had happened, what else could he do?

This was better.

Sighing quietly, he wiped his tears and poured the wine found on the table just before the rich scarlet couch, careful not to spill a drop on his gold gloves. Just a sliver of powder from the tincture in his costume pocket would do it.

After a moment of allowing the poison to settle, he glanced around the library. He'd always loved this room best; how fitting he would die in it. Taking a final, shaking breath, he adjusted his mask so that his lips could touch the goblet.

One gulp. Two. He readjusted his mask.

Meanwhile, upstairs, his letter was dropped to the floor of an elaborate suite. Footsteps hurried to where he stood.

The clock struck midnight, and Bartholomew collapsed, the goblet still clutched in his gloved hand.

An anguished cry drowned the music and laughter. And then, there was only silence.


	2. I: A Grave Situation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's easy to get lost in the woods surrounding the old farmlands of Central City's outskirts. But leave it up to Barry Allen to end up stumbling on an abandoned cemetery.

It's easy to get lost in the woods surrounding the old farmlands of Central City's outskirts. But leave it up to Barry Allen to end up stumbling on an abandoned cemetery.

His phone has no reception, and now he's nursing a bruised knee from tripping over one of the smaller gravestones. Tonight is just the best Mischief Night he's ever had. Really. Thank you, Iris West.

Barry sighs, feeling guilty as he brushes himself off and mutters an apology to whoever's grave he stumbled upon. It's not Iris' fault Eddie held his Halloween party on an old farm. And it's definitely not Iris' fault that Barry somehow lost his way taking a leak, that her best friend's brain kept insisting that he wasn't far enough away, that he should keep going.

Now, as he looks around, all he sees is grey and mist, both illuminated by the full moon looming above the treetops. There's a hulking silhouette in the distance, but it's cast in shadow. Certainly a house, though - a big house.

Barry's eyebrows furrow. He's lived in Central City his whole life; no one spoke about a mansion in the middle of the woods, let alone a mansion surrounded by dead people. This is just his luck. Still, maybe he can take a few pictures, tell Iris about it. Central's Historical Society would have a ball.

"Okay," he whispers, breath clouding in the air. "Okay. Let's just...stay calm, and take a walk. Yeah."

A few minutes later, Barry's going to die laughing. If he hadn't felt how real the stone was, he would have thought this whole graveyard was a giant prank. He's near a mausoleum, where an old oak tree presides. The mausoleum reads QUEEN, but he's not going to brave that alone.

Besides, there are other graves to read.

_Felicity Smoak_

_Fell for a bloke_

_Not that a man defines her life or her character! In fact she is a lot more than that, thank you very much. If anything, she would like to have something else carved on this stone, like, oh, her intelligence, or how she actually braved a WAR with just her wits about her. Not that the man she fell in love with wasn't wonderful, he was - he is! It's just that-_

_(May She Rest in Peace)_

How did they even get that to fit? Why did they get that to fit? Barry wishes he could have met this Felicity Smoak.

_John Diggle_

_Laid to Rest_

_Nothing else to be said_

_At his request_

Barry laughs at this one too. Who  _were_  these people?

_Caitlin Snow_

_Don't you dare ask her_

_to Let it Go_

This one is what first tips Barry off. He stops in front of this grave, eyes narrowing in confusion. Because this cemetery is old. Very old.

Too old to know what  _Frozen_  is.

But, being the foolish mortal that he is, Barry shakes his head and dismisses it. This must be referring to something else, maybe a blood feud that refused to die with her. What other explanation is there?

_Cisco Ramon_

_Stuff was just too dope_

_for him to move on_

Okay...what?

Again, Barry shakes his head and keeps going.

_Ronnie Raymond_

_Doing fine,_

_but still attached to…_

Directly next to this grave is another:

_Dr. Martin Stein_

This Dr. Stein's wife, Clarissa, also just has her name carved onto her stone. Barry supposes the couple was like John Diggle in regards to the odd epitaphs that seemed to be a theme with this cemetery.

Barry spins in a circle, as these graves were all situated across from the mausoleum and he'd glimpsed another row around it.

_Michael Rory_

_Went out in a Blaze of Glory_

There's a picture of a flame depicted under this epitaph. This graveyard is amazing.

_Lisa Snart_

_Brave and bold_

_All that Glitters is Gold_

Huh. Barry can't say he completely understands that - one…

Next to Lisa Snart's grave is another Snart. It's a funny surname, but that's not what makes Barry pause and stare blankly for a good minute. The longer he stares, the worse his déjà vu becomes, despite the fact that he's never seen this in his life.

_Leonard Snart_

_Truth be told,_

_he just caught a Cold_

Barry shakes his head and laughs at himself. It's late; it's Mischief Night; he's lost in an old cemetery; and he's staring at a bad rhyme.

"I need to go home," he sighs, shoving his hands in his pockets. It's getting cold.

Whoa. It's getting really cold. Barry must've not noticed the temperature drop, focused as he was on the absurd epitaphs.

Turns out he's going to try the mausoleum after all. Better than standing outside freezing his ass off in a jacket that's way too thin for this sudden chill.

Using what strength he's got, Barry pulls open the heavy doors and walks inside the mausoleum, pulls them behind him - and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

There are urns along the walls in glass casings, but there’s a giant stone coffin taking up the center.

_Oliver Queen_

_Died in the dark_

_yearning for a smoke_

“Wow.” Barry nearly jumps at his own voice - seems there’s a small echo in here. “That’s depressing.”

Thankfully, the rest just have names: Moira, Walter, and Thea.

“Wait a minute…” Barry chews on his bottom lip, tilting his head at Oliver Queen’s engraving. “Smoke…?”

He flips on his phone’s flashlight, wipes at the dirt, and -

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

It’s not  _smoke_ , but  _Smoak_.

Barry grins, “Let me guess - rich boy falls in love with girl way below his station, but they can’t be together. That’s...okay, I wanna say that’s gross, but it’s just me talking to air here, so I’ll let you in on a little secret, Oliver Queen: I think that’s really sweet. And it's actually pretty warm in here, buuuut…”

Barry shoves the doors open again. Cold air rushes into his bones; he doesn’t mind though. Instead, he throws an arm out to Felicity Smoak’s grave, which is of course directly across from the mausoleum. Moonlight hits it just right, with none of the oak tree’s shadows.

“I’m all for happy endings, y’know?” Barry says, leaning against the door and shivering, “I’m on my way to one of those myself. Well, sorta. I mean...I guess I’ve already reached it? But - this isn’t about me, this is about you two! I guess! Because…” he breathes through another shiver, “because I am apparently a total loser?”

He scrubs his face with both hands, consequently not noticing the wisp of blue-white smoke escaping from the mausoleum. There's a house ahead; it might be lived in, might not, but it's Barry's only chance to get out of this frosty air until he can figure out a way to retrace his steps.

Rubbing his palms together, Barry leaves the mausoleum and traipses towards the looming shadow. As he disappears into the fog, two wisps, like the one which we saw leave the crypt, swirl into solid-looking beings.

One of them whispers, obviously excited, "it's him! It's actually him!"

"It can't be," his companion whispers back. She doesn't fool him, however; her expression is too open and hopeful.

"Are you doubting the prophecies, Caitlin? Cisco told us he'd come back, and there he is!"

Caitlin worries her bottom lip. "I...guess there's only one way to find out?"

"You read my mind."

* * *

The first thing Barry says when he beholds the large, ornate door knockers is an eloquent, "Whoa."

They're not lions or bears or anything like he'd expected from watching way too many movies. Instead, the knockers are in the jowls of what looks like arctic foxes. Definitely rusty, as unkempt as the rest of the overgrown property; nevertheless, lights shine through the old curtains covering the windows. Someone lives here, and Barry's best guess is a rich old person who hates when young whipper-snappers show up on their doorstep complaining of a sudden chill.

Barry knocks anyway.

Almost immediately, the door groans inwards, prompting a tingle of  _you should start running_ down his spine. Barry takes a steadying breath through his nose and braces himself to greet the person peeking around the door...except there's nobody there.

"Hello?" he calls, voice echoing off the paneled walls (was that mahogany?). "Hello! I-I'm sorry to bother you so late. My name's Barry Allen, I live in the city. Uh, I was wondering if you could tell me how to get back, actually? I sort of lost my way in the woods..."

It's not until he says all of this out loud that he realizes he is actually in a horror movie. Yet a cold breeze murmurs against the back of his neck, as if reminding him why he should go inside this creepy mansion.

Barry takes a deep breath and dares himself to take a step forward. "I'm pretty sure doors don't open by themselves, unless this is some big prank or something. In which case, uh, really good job!" Silence. "Look, I really am sorry if I'm bothering you -"

Lightning flashes, startling him. He whirled around just in time to watch the snow start to fall in sheets.

Wait, snow? It wasn't even winter yet, and lightning wasn't usually a precursor for  _snow_.

Wait.  _Snow_.

"Shit," Barry hisses, rummaging in his jacket pocket and brandishing his phone. No signal. "Shit!"

"Now, now, no need for such language."

Barry jumps again. Two staircases loom in front of him, coming together at the top to form an archway stretching into a long hallway. While there is a man standing there, the voice was distinctly feminine. Turning his gaze to the right staircase, Barry sees a beautiful woman draped in an old-fashioned gold dress. The sleeves wrap around her upper arms, leaving her shoulders and neck exposed, and the bodice had swirling designs sewn in. Her painted red lips are curled in a secretive smile, as if she knows something Barry doesn't.

"I'm kidding," she says, climbing down the remaining stairs with a graceful step, "just wanted to scare you. Happy Mischief Night."

Barry laughs. It sounds breathless and just this side of hysterical. "Is this a prank, then?"

"No, but that's a good idea for next year." She reaches Barry, holding out her hand. "Lisa Snart. So sorry I didn't come sooner - my brother isn't feeling well, and he needs constant looking after."

Guilt immediately clenches Barry's gut. "I -"

"That doesn't mean you're not welcome here - Barry, right?" for a split second, Barry panics, until he remembers he practically yelled his name earlier. He nods. "Freak storms like these don't happen often, but when they do, it's better to wait it out until the morning."

It's here that the gears click in Barry's head. "Lisa Snart?"

Lisa smirks. "Guess you took a little tour of the...gardens out back. Don't worry, Barry," she winks, "Lisa's a family name. Short for Elisabeth."

"Oh," Barry scratches the back of his head, "right, yeah. I'm just -"

"I understand. Walking through a cemetery, coming across this old place, all on Mischief Night...gets you a bit turned around. Well, you can see for yourself that this place is ghost-free."

Right, because - blizzard. "Is there any way I can get back to the city before the snow piles up?"

That knowing smile reappears. It's strangely irritating. "Unless you can run impossibly fast through next to no visibility, I'd say no. Come on, promise this place isn't that bad. Mick'll show you to your room. Right, Mick?" the man, still standing in the archway, grumbles his consent. "I know he looks intimidating, but he's really a big softy. I'm going to check on my brother, and then I'll find you again. Okay?"

Barry swallows, casting another long look around the room. Yep, cobwebs over the chandelier, clock above the archway close to midnight, long hallway behind  _Mick_ \- a huge, scowling guy in a jacket and combat boots - displaying old suits of armor in the dim lighting.  _Definitely_ not haunted.

Still, what choice did he have?

So he smiles at Lisa. "Thank you."

"Believe me, it's the least I can do," Lisa replies. "Welcome to Queen's Manor."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't have more than one coincidental name at a time because Barry's too smart for that. Hence Michael Rory on the grave.
> 
> I hope you guys are liking the trash so far.


	3. II: A Little Tour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lisa tells a story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want you to know that, yes, I am indeed making this up as I go along. The Prologue and the rest of this story were not written before this was posted. This actually goes for every chapter story I've ever written on here. Because why have a nice, thought-out story, am I right?

Mick doesn't say much. Whatever comes out of his mouth besides a few grunts involves reminding Barry how much he hates small talk, so let's just keep quiet, okay?

Considering his size, Barry decides to roll with it.

Still, the silence is unnerving. It's almost like the mansion is holding its breath - or it let out its last one centuries ago. Barry's not sure which one he prefers.

After a few minutes' walking through endless corridors, Mick takes a set of keys from his belt, rapidly going through them until he finds a handsome gold key with what looks like a real ruby on its handle. Barry tries not to gape at it as Mick puts it into a door that stands right next to a window overlooking the cemetery. Unfortunately, Lisa had been right about the visibility - what graves Barry manages to see are swallowed by the blizzard all too soon.

Mick pushes the door open. This time Barry can't stop his jaw from dropping.

"Wow," he mutters, eagerly following Mick into the room.

Everything is bedecked in scarlet red and shining yellow-gold, from the four-post bed's sheets to the carpet to the wallpaper to the drapes. There's a fireplace, a  _huge_ fireplace, settled between two floor-to-ceiling windows. Against the wall across from the bed, there is a desk with books stacked neatly on and around it. Barry's immediately drawn to them, inexplicably curious to know what the previous occupant of this room (who is more than likely  _dead_ ) was interested in.

To his amazement, they're all priceless first editions of scientific books. Really old-school, around the height of the Enlightenment period and a little later, so the information is far from up to date, but  _still._ Physics, medicine, biology, physiology, psychology, even botany.

"What're you doing?"

Barry whirls around. "Sorry, I...these are just - really cool."

Wow, real smooth, Allen.

Thankfully, Mick doesn't look angry for running his grubby hands all over the beautiful tomes, just...well, Barry can't actually read the expression on his face. Confusion? Concern?

_Relief?_

No, that can't be it. Must be tired from everything that's happened. Barry clears his throat, scours the room in search for something - anything - to steer the situation away from the awkward silence. He kind of wants to ask about Lisa's brother, but he figures it's better to play it safe.

He finds what he's looking for resting over the fireplace. Pointing at it, he asks, "What's that?"

Suddenly Mick's entire body stiffens like a board. "That is none of your damn business, kid," he growls, stomping towards the fireplace and snatching what could only be a painting from its spot. It's covered with a sheet, so Barry can't see what it depicts. Judging by the reaction...a portrait?

Probably not a painting then, since people don't commission hand-painted portraits these days. Big photograph, then. Family? Seems like Mick's a friend of Lisa's.

Someone died - someone close to both of them.

Barry winces. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to -"

Mick interrupts with a grumbled, "Yeah, yeah." Raising his voice, "Bathroom's through that door," gesturing to the door just by the desk, "Lisa'll come by, like she said. You, uh, hungry or something?"

"Oh, um, no," Barry says, not expecting the considerate question. "I actually came from a party. My best friend and I ate a big dinner before we went."

"You got friends?"

Didn't sound like it was meant as an insult, at least.

Barry's mouth quirks. "Yeah...? My best friend's named Iris. Her boyfriend, Eddie, he was throwing the party."

"Oh."

Another awkward silence.

Mick adjusts his grip on the covered photo. "Better get this to the attic. Don't wander around, okay?"

Restless as Barry feels in this suffocating quiet, this room somehow feels like a rush of cool water. He finds he'd rather not leave it anytime soon.

"Okay."

* * *

The trip to the attic is just as much of a bitch as it ever was, but Mick makes it anyway, because the painting is worth it.

Everything's covered with dust and cobwebs, with almost no light penetrating the cracks in the roof. Yet there is one secluded corner that saps up any and all moonlight like it knows anything worth seeing belongs there. To the outsider, there's nothing much that separates this corner from the rest of the attic's junk: a dilapidated trunk with faded initials, a suit of rich white fabric clothing a dark mannequin, covered by a translucent black cloth, and plenty of books. _  
_

With a surprisingly gentle hand, Mick rests the painting above the trunk and removes the cloth. He takes in the subject like he can't believe he's seeing it.

"Damn," he whispers.

* * *

Lisa does come by, not bothering to knock. Barry cringes upon her arrival, because he'd totally been reading through those well-worn first editions. Whoever owned them first made a bunch of notes in the margins -  _fascinating_ stuff, like, whoever this was had ideas  _way_ before their time.

"You know nobody's gonna kill you for reading, right?" Lisa quips. Thank God, she sounds amused more than anything.

Barry rubs his eyes. Hearing that out loud made him sound like a paranoid idiot. "Right. Um, how's your brother?"

Lisa shrugs a shoulder. "He's been doing better these past weeks. I'm hoping he'll be walking around in a few days."

"Oh...is he, like...really sick?"

"He just gets like this sometimes. I've stopped trying to understand it." She says it like a joke, so he smiles. "So, need anything? We haven't had many visitors out here, as you can imagine, so I'd be very happy to entertain." 

Because Barry's literally thirteen, he has to stop himself from stuttering at that comment. She has to see it anyway, and he's not too keen on leaving that as his impression on her.

He stuffs his hands into his pockets for lack of anything better to do with them. "Do you know anything about the history of this place? I'm guessing it's a family home?"

Lisa seems eager enough to answer. "You guess correctly, Barry. Fun fact though, this place didn't actually belong to my family until the late eighteen hundreds. It's not called Snart Manor for a reason."

"That would explain the big Queen mausoleum," says Barry.

"Yes. Once my family made their fortune, they bought the place when the Queen family fell out of financial grace. The eldest son, Oliver Queen, was the one to sell it."

Barry smiles again. "Oliver, yeah," he says, "I saw his grave. He and, uh, Felicity Smoak - ?"

"Ah, yes. This mansion's known for its love stories. Passion, heartbreak, secret kisses stolen in the gardens before it was a cemetery," something in Lisa's eyes dims, "even suicide."

Lisa approaches him with slow, deliberate steps. She holds out her arm to him.

"How about I give you a little tour and tell you  _all_ about it?"

Is this flirting? Is she flirting with him?

"Um," Barry licks his lips, "okay, sure, yeah. Sounds fun."

Lisa grins without teeth. She still looks like a predator sizing up her dinner. Barry really wishes Iris was here - she'd be able to send him a look that would tell him if this was flirting or not.

"Where do we start?"

Lisa chortles. "Depends on your favorite kind of death."

...probably not flirting then.

* * *

In the end, she starts off with Oliver Queen and Felicity Smoak. They walk, arm in arm, to an observatory that would have looked magnificent in its prime.

"When my family bought this place from the Queens, they agreed to allow Oliver the west wing until he either died or wished to leave. Felicity was the lovely assistant to Mrs. Queen's late second husband. She became the housekeeper.

"Whenever she had spare time, she either studied extensively, or let Oliver whisk her off to be courted. They fell in love, naturally. But Mrs. Queen found out, and...well."

Barry's heart lurches. "She didn't approve?"

A glint sparks in Lisa's eye. "History books say that, sure."

"And you don't?"

"I've lived in this house my whole life, Barry. My brother and I found some very interesting things when we were exploring as kids."

She lifts a tile at the foot of a dead rose bush. An old book rests underneath.

 _M. Queen_ is written in neat, black letters on its worn cover.

"Whoa!" Barry laughs.

Lisa taps the cover once, twice, three times. "Let's just say, Mrs. Queen owed some bad people her allegiance. When Oliver told her of his plans to propose to Felicity, she couldn't accept that. It was supposed to be his marriage that would restore the Queen family name and status. If that was put back to rights, Mrs. Queen would have been able to fight back against those bad, bad people."

Barry blows out a breath through his mouth. "That sounds like something out of a movie."  Lisa hums, replacing the tile without allowing him to touch the diary. He smothers his disappointment. "What happened?"

"Felicity and Oliver married," Lisa replies, "and Mrs. Queen was killed in her bed. Oliver continues the diary for the last few pages. In this, he swears revenge, yada yada. Enters a war with those who murdered his mother. Felicity insisted on staying by him. It was all so very romantic."

Barry nods slowly. "Did they have their happy ending?"

"If they did, I wouldn't bother telling you," replies Lisa with a playful smirk. "Yes, they both made it to the final showdown. Out of the two of them, only Oliver survived." Barry's chest constricts. "He returned to the manor for Felicity's funeral, then went to live with his sister and friends. They're all buried here."

"'Died yearning for a Smoak,'" Barry murmurs.

Lisa huffs. "Sometimes I walk around the dead people just to read those awful epitaphs. Cheers me up."

"Yeah, they're pretty funny. So, um, who's next?"

Lisa goes quiet for a minute. Barry waits, casting his eyes about the dirty glass and dead plants.

"A lot of tragedies happened here," she says at length, "but if you're looking for another romantic one, I can only think of two that involve my family."

"Sounds impressive."

Lisa grunts a sour laugh. "Guess so. Come on."

She leads him through the mansion, making small talk along the way. Apparently she doesn't want to divulge the whole story beforehand. Barry learns a little more about her brother: apparently, he can be charming when he wants to be, but also a cold son of a bitch. But he's her brother, and Barry can tell she loves him.

In return, Barry tells her about Iris, Joe, and Eddie, about his dream to become the youngest forensic scientist in Central City. He can't tell if Lisa's genuinely impressed or not, but at least she acts it.

The conversation dies off when she pushes open a set of double doors off the entrance hall. The ballroom beyond takes Barry's breath away.

Even in its worn down state, the ballroom is amazing. Two floors in height, with floor-to-ceiling windows lining the far wall, illuminating the dust and dirt carpeting the marble flooring. At the top of a curving staircase is a huge organ, pipes and all. Barry can just imagine the life and sound that once filled the room, reverberated off the light-colored walls. He can almost hear the echoes of conversations past, of laughter and dances.

Lisa interrupts his thoughts by asking, "Do you dance, Barry?"

Barry barks a laugh. It bounces off the walls. "No, I'm not too good on my feet. You?"

"I dabble." She doesn't elaborate. "So, why do you think I brought you here? Other than the fact that it's one of the most beautiful rooms in this place."

Barry can't argue with that. "Well, you said something about a romance. Did a Snart meet their special someone during a fancy ball?"

"On the contrary," Lisa says, "a Snart carried his beloved's corpse through this room before he killed himself. But you got the ball right."


	4. III: Dream a Little Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Rinzler: I can finally tell you that I was just messing with you about the prologue. Or was I? Ha, no I'm kidding, I was messing with you. Just wanted to have some fun.
> 
> Anyway, so sorry about the delay. I'll be working on the next chapter a lot sooner. Probably after I finish typing this up. Who knows...? ;D

"Oh," Barry squeaks, because  _what is he supposed to say to that?_

Humming her agreement, Lisa sweeps across the room until she is in the center, just under the ruined chandelier. Barry follows, albeit cautious of its rusty chain's creaking grip to the ceiling.

Lisa points to a set of double doors to her left—Barry's right—and says, "It was through there. According to eyewitness accounts, he came through the library, into the dining room—where those doors lead—and finally through here. Some described it as a one-man funeral procession."

Barry's heart constricts. "What happened?" he quietly asks.

Lisa sighs through her nose. When she meets Barry's eyes, she looks almost as sad as he feels.

"The Snart—Leonard was his name—fell in love with the son of his father's personal physician." Unknown fear pulses through her listener. "Of course in those days, a homosexual relationship wasn't the best idea. But Leonard fell in love, to the point where he actually proposed."

Barry's stomach flips. Why is he reacting like this? Must be the atmosphere of the room. "How could they get married, though?"

Lisa shrugs a shoulder. "Leonard inherited his father's...connections. I guess there was a priest or lawyer willing to officiate it for the right price."

"And...he was murdered? The son?"

"No," Lisa replies, sounding oddly numb, "he poisoned himself in the library."

Choking silence follows this statement. Barry's eyes drift back to the doors. Somehow they look bigger now, nastier, as if they're waiting to swallow him whole. He scrubs a hand down his face to dispel the image—

What the...

Instead of the expected skin on skin, Barry feels something smooth and soft, like silk. He snatches his hand back, only to gape as he beholds a shining golden glove covering it.

In a blink, it's gone.

Lisa's voice snaps him back to reality. "Barry? Are you okay?"

"What? Yeah, yeah. I just—um."

She raises an amused eyebrow. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

The laugh that bubbles out of Barry sounds way too nervous. "Nah, I—you're just a really good storyteller, Lisa."

Lisa peers at his face. "I'm flattered, but maybe—do you want a drink or—"

"No!" the word snaps out of Barry before he can think. Suddenly, the idea of a drink seems like the worst thing in the world. Probably because the last time he had a drink while nervous, he nearly threw up.

Yeah. That was it.

"Uh, sorry—no, thanks. So there was a party here? While Leonard...did that?" he finishes lamely.

Strangely enough, Lisa smiles at him, full and kind, before returning to her solemn tale. "A masquerade, actually. Just in time for Halloween. This room was drenched in decorations, and everything had these ridiculous animal masks, and the outfits—so rich in color. It was a amazing, watching them twirl around while the music played. Or so I've read."

Barry's too caught up in imagining the scene to notice Lisa's wistful tone as she recounts the masquerade. He can almost see it: out of the corner of his eye, a swish of a dark purple gown; whispering just near his ear, a muffled organ playing a lively tune with a string quartet; tempting his nose, perfumes and cooked meat...

...and then, cobalt blue, illuminated under the chandelier's pool of light. A white glove, contrasting his gold one, reaching for him—

Barry sucks in a sharp, wet gasp. What's happening to him?

"L-Lisa, um," he starts, trembling from head to toe. He wants to ask if he can go back upstairs and lie down, but what comes out is, "What happened to Leonard? After that night, I mean?"

He doesn't know why he feels the need to add that clarification. He doesn't know a lot of things right now.

Lisa carefully hides her hopeful expression when she answers: "Leonard's health took a beating. He kept complaining about how cold he was, no matter how many blankets the servants brought. Soon after, someone—" she swallows past the hitch in her voice, "someone found him in the tower. He'd hung himself."

The words stab Barry in the gut, frigid and unforgiving. He nearly doubles over with it.

" _Shit_ ," he hisses. Lisa nods, silent. "Why—what drove the other guy to kill himself, though?"

"Apparently he left a letter, addressed to Leonard. I've seen it only once—my brother keeps documents that aren't in books locked up, in case they aren't handled properly." A little pout escapes from under the crushing sorrow, yet Barry can't bring himself to lighten up with her. "Lucky you, I have a photographic memory."

Barry forces a half-hearted smile at that. It falls almost instantly, replaced with anxious trepidation. Lisa takes his arm again; as they leave the ballroom, she recites:

_Leonard,_

_I have thought long and hard about our conversation yesterday evening. After considering our families, your reputation, and my father's, as well as the futures_ _open to us, I have at last come to a decision._

_I am so sorry, but I cannot marry you. What we shared was beautiful, and I will take that to my grave. For, Leonard, I know what the consequences are, should one deny a Snart what he wants. I ask—no, I implore you, to take my death as suitable recompense, and to not punish my poor mother and father. They did nothing to influence my decision._

_You will find what is left of me in the library. Goodbye._

_Yours, in Regret..._

"...and the page is ripped. No signature."

"I—" Barry runs a shaking hand through his hair. "That's horrible."

Lisa grips his arm. "Barry, are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, just—long night," Barry mutters, "Lisa, this was really fun, and—thank you for sharing all that."

"My pleasure."

"But, um, do you think—I mean—"

Lisa rolls her eyes, "Barry it's, what, almost midnight? I'll take you back to your room."

Something in Barry's chest loosens. "Thank you," he breathes.

They're mostly silence on the way, perhaps in respect to Leonard and his love's tragedy. It's so strange, though. Why didn't Barry feel this strongly over Oliver and Felicity's story? Was it the fact that theirs didn't end in a double suicide? Maybe it was letter. Barry's head reels at the very thought of it. Definitely that, then.

It just doesn't make sense! If What's-his-face loved Leonard even a fraction of how much Leonard apparently loved him, how could he think Leonard would  _kill him_ if he said no? Family names mean little when you really know a person. At least they  _should_.

Anger heats his cheeks. Whoever he was, Barry doesn't like him.

* * *

Given the aura of the mansion, Lisa's stories, and his thoughts before collapsing onto the bed, Barry had been expecting nightmares.

What he gets instead is very different.

 _Before him is a short-legged table and a large, detailed fireplace. The fire crackles merrily, joining the sound of a page turning behind him. Stacked around him are books, books, and more books—this is a library, and a vast one._ Barry wants to look around, but finds he can't turn his head.

 _Without his volition, he scribbles something into an open book on the table. He is sitting on an expensive ornate rug, a couch digging into his back even as he bends away from it to write._ The words make no sense; however, Barry gets the impression they aren't what's important here.

_Sure enough, a cool hand cards into his hair, gently massaging his scalp. It feels incredible; he sighs contentedly. A smile warms the back of his neck._

_"This is wonderful," his mouth says, "absolutely wonderful! Have you ever seen anything so fascinating?"_

_A masculine laugh settles into his bones._

_"I'm serious!" he cries, "Look—"_

_Barry turns—and he's in an observatory, admiring the blooming flowers and verdure. The cool hand is now clasped in his own._

_"And this one," he saying, pointing to a lovely crowd of periwinkle blue flowers,_ "Myosotis scorpiodes.  _Forget-me-nots."_

 _A hum. Then Barry's pulled into a backwards embrace. He tilts his head to make room for the kiss on his neck._ The movement comes so naturally to him, he almost forgets he's not in control.

_"Will you ever forget me?" he murmurs, "I just—I don't think I will be able to forget you."_

And yet he has. No matter how hard he tries, Barry can't picture a single detail of whoever's holding him. It makes him want to scream.

_The arms around him tighten their hold. He feels him inhale, about to speak—only to have Barry swallow his words, because now they're kissing frantically on a couch._

_Barry's eyes are closed now, so all he can feel is the—_ mind-blowing _—kiss, head their huffs and gasps, feel the cool body above him become warm under his hands, taste that tongue,_ and wow, just.Wow.

_Next thing he knows, he's whispering, "I love you," and meaning it._

He wakes with a start.

* * *

So, sleep is out for a while. Barry's tried for the last hour with no luck.

Figures when he has the best dreams in his life, he can't find them again.

Better get some exercise, see if he can tire himself out. Lisa probably wouldn't mind if he did some exploring; he doubts he'll happen upon her brother's room or something. Any locked doors he'll avoid, and if he gets lost, well, a house is a house. Shouldn't be  _that_ hard to find the entrance hall at least.

Resolved, Barry pulls on his jeans, t-shirt, and jacket leaving just his socks on so he doesn't makes too much noise. He walks into the cold hallway.

* * *

Barry's image fades, replaced by a young man's excited head.

"What did I tell you?" the head gushes, voice having an odd echo from being inside a crystal ball, "It's totally him!"

The four people to whom he speaks we can now officially describe, as they will be standing there long enough this time. You may recognize two of them, the ones standing to the left of the table upon which this head sits: they are the two from the graveyard, a man and a woman. The man has an athletic build, with a youthful face and dark hair. His dress includes a waistcoat flaring with orange thread. The black and white of the rest of his outfit makes that orange almost seem like a flame. The woman, or Caitlin, as you may have heard, holds his hand and arm. She is draped in grey, causing her tumbling red hair to seem all the more colorful. Where he is as visibly excited as his decapitated friend, she is stiff with nerves.

The other two I would not expect you to know, since neither you nor Barry got a good look at them. This woman is blonde, with her hair neatly tied back, spectacles resting on her nose. Her dress is a flowing pink, complimenting her painted lips. Her companion has a more muscular form than the other man, his hair more brunet than blond. He is dressed in dark greens and blacks, the suit clinging to his frame perfectly. They are also a couple, as made evident by the fact that they are holding each other. However, what makes them different is the nature of their embrace: they cling to each other, as if afraid to ever let go again.

Once the head makes his pronouncement, any tension these four have floods into a rush of hope. None of them have felt something like that in far too long.

"Cisco," says Caitlin, leaning forward so they can look each other in the eye, "how do we get him to remember? Like,  _really_ remember?"

The blonde adds, "'Break the curse' remember."

Cisco's eyes get a distant look in them. Whatever he perceives is not the tiny room to which he is confined. The yellow light permeating from him takes a darker tint, as if reacting to his concentration.

When he speaks at last, he sounds dazed: "Let him see what really is. Everything that is rightfully his."

The man in green gets a hint of a smile. "I even missed those awful rhymes," he murmurs to the blonde woman, kissing her head. (She grins up at him like she can't believe he's with her.) In a louder voice, he says, "I have an idea."

* * *

Barry can't for the life of him find the library, but the dining room is magnificent. Even with the cobwebs, dust, and dirt, Barry spends a good five minutes just admiring the old paintings of landscapes adorning the walls, the intricate patterns on the curtains, the vivid carvings in the wood of the chairs. Is there  _anything_ in this mansion that isn't something off Google Images? Seriously.

He's just about to leave when he hears it. Whispering.

Idiot that he is, he follows the noise. Even calls Lisa's name. Yet when he reaches the entrance hall, the edge of the skirt he sees at the top of the left staircase is pink, not gold.

Of course he follows it anyway.

"Hello?" nothing answers him.

Barry founds the corner. At the end of the corridor, a flash of red hair. Laughter, fervent shushing.

He should run. Why isn't he running? Away from the voices, he means.

More turns, some doors. Every time, a glance of hair, the tail-end of a rustling skirt, sometimes even a goading whistle or a man's fingers peeking around a corner, is there to guide him. Guide him  _where,_ though? To his death?

_Why isn't he running away?_

Finally, he opens a door that leads directly to a set of rickety stairs. At the top, another door, one that is...creaking open...by itself.

 _Nope_.

Regaining control of his limbs, Barry turns on his heel—only to have a menacing hooded shadow block his way.

The shadow points to the door.  _"Go!"_ booms its voice, too deep to be human.

Barry squeaks and dashes up the stairs. The hallway door shuts with a mighty slam.

He's trapped. By ghosts. Those were—those were ghosts.

"I gotta get out of here," he whispers, immediately craning his head this way and that to look for possible exits.

This room seems to be an attic. There are cracks in the roof, though not big enough for Barry to fit through (what would he do on top of a roof, anyway?). The blizzard rages on outside, sending cold air whooshing through said cracks, but no snow, which would be weird if Barry didn't already know the place was  _haunted_.

Did Lisa know? She said the mansion was "ghost-free," but...Barry blows a harsh breath through his mouth. He can't focus on that.

Maybe the ghosts'll let him out with time. Meanwhile, he needs to calm down. He needs a distraction.

His eyes are drawn to the only lit corner in the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that is the same corner in the attic.


	5. IV: Bartholomew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apparently Barry has a twin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never gotten so many comments actually thanking me for writing stuff like this since I joined this fandom. So, THANK YOU!!!
> 
> Another important note: I didn't put Glee in the fandoms list, but Sebastian is mentioned here as Bartholomew's twin. For reasons I can't tell you because they're going to come up in the story. He's not going to be a bona fide character or anything.
> 
> I hope you guys are liking this trash :D be prepared for more trash :D (seriously there is so much trash in this chapter I can't even begin to say)

Obviously the portrait's what he sees first.

Fear and incomprehension slice through his body as he staggers towards an expert rendition of  _his own face_. The paint has almost invisible cracks; the gold frame has a thin coating of rust; nevertheless, it is very much him, Barry Allen, if he'd been born at least a hundred years earlier.

Portrait-Barry lounges in a three-quarter view, ankles crossed, in a high-backed chair of dark wood with black cushions. His face has a half-smile, as if he's been told he can't laugh and is trying not to do it anyway. His eyes, painted a lovely hazel green, are bright and kind. One of his elbows rests on the chair's arm, hand hanging over his thigh. His other hand holds a book, opened in his fingers, even though he is looking at the viewer. Bookshelves, also dark wood, stand behind him, holding rows and rows of books with dim hues. 

That is what's fascinating about this painting, aside from the apparent resemblance: Portrait-Barry is the only bright thing in it. His skin, right down to the freckles and moles, fairly glows in his baby blue coat and trousers. Everything else is darker, muted. Despite knowing nothing about this thing, Barry can tell: whoever commissioned this loved the subject.

Not to be narcissistic, but Barry finds him absolutely radiant. Then it catches up to him that, oh hey,  _this is him._

Barry traces the paint with careful fingers. Definitely old. No one could have done this recently. Who would have, anyway? Barry knows a lot of people, but none of them are remotely artistic. (Sorry Iris, but that is  _not_ a stick figure. That is a monstrosity.) Which begs the question:  _what is going on?_

Tearing his eyes away, Barry chances to spot the white suit next. The mannequin's shoulders match his height perfectly; he doesn't have to check to know that suit would fit him to a tee. Now the panic's starting to set in. Because that? That is definitely a wedding costume.

More books, but Barry zeroes in on the trunk. Dropping to his knees, he quickly rubs his thumb over where the initials should be. Unfortunately, it seems there's nothing covering them; they've been scratched off. Frustrated, he reaches for the latches—and hears a clicking sound.

The latches open by themselves. Barry jumps backwards with a startled yelp as the trunk throws itself open, dislodging the portrait. Fortunately, Barry manages to scramble forward and catch the painting before it clatters to the floor.

Take it from him—coming this close to a centuries-old you is not as fun as it might sound.

Forcing himself to take deep breaths, Barry slowly sets the portrait—he refuses to think of it as  _his_ —against the white suit. Once that's done, he creeps back to the trunk.

"Please don't have a body, please don't have a body," he whispers. Peering over the rim—he almost collapses in relief. "Oh thank God!"

No body. Not even a severed head. Instead, the trunk smells like any antique trunk, with the faintest whiff of foxglove. It's littered with papers, pressed plants, even a few photographs. More books too, only these are different from those on the floor. These are labelled in musty ink.

_Bartholomew Allen_ , they read.

Barry—Barry might throw up.

Pale as a sheet, he forces himself to reach down and take one of the folded papers. It turns out to be a letter.

_Queen's Manor  
_ _14th of April, 1874_

_Dear Sebastian,_

_I haven't heard from you in nearly a year. How are you? How is your tour of Europe? Is it what you were hoping? Do you miss home?_

_Everything has been wonderful here. Spring has set in at last, and I can finally go on my walks without turning into a shivering mess. I've convinced Len to allow me to take a few flowers and other various plants and move them to the conservatory. I promised to tell him all of the scientific names if he does. For some reason or another, he tells me he enjoys hearing scientific names; you would likely tell me it's because I am the one saying them._

_Father and Mother are well. They ask after you often. Apparently it is not just my letters you're ignoring. Shame on you._

_I will end this letter here, as I know more than anyone how you despise reading too much. Please write soon._

_Your Loving Brother,_

_Bartholomew_

_Post-Script: If you should ever be inclined to come home, Miss Elisabeth Snart tells me she is planning to have a Masquerade in late October. You are more than welcome to attend._

"Len"...Masquerade in October...Barry turns cold.

It can't be.

He drops the letter and digs out another one.

_Queen's Manor  
_ _1st of May, 1874_

_Dear Sebastian,_

_How funny life is, Brother. Just last week, I received your letters—all five of them. Sometimes I wish we could give and receive mail with the snap of our fingers. With the new technology that has been developing, who is to say we won't? What do you think?_

_As for your questions concerning Len: I have not told our parents. I only write to you because from a scientific standpoint, you are half of me. I trust you as I trust the sun to rise every morning, and I hope the sentiment is shared. Miss Lisa and Mr. Rory, Len's most trusted friend, know about what Len and I share as well. Our circle is small, and I do not think it will ever grow, as much as I loathe lying to Mother and Father._

_To answer your other questions: yes, but no. I love Leonard Snart with everything I have, yet what can come of it, Sebastian? Once Mr. Snart dies, there is no guarantee Father will still be employed at Queen's Manor, regardless of Len's feelings for me. I suspect I will keep Len in my heart forever, but I also suspect he will be a memory with time._

_I refuse to end this letter on such a sad note! You are exploring the world, after all. Let us enjoy what we have while we can._

_Give Kurtis my best._

_Sincerely,_

_Bartholomew_

Barry chokes.

He is—Bartholomew is— _was_ the man who poisoned himself.

Nothing makes sense.

_Queen's Manor  
_ _21st of July, 1874_

_Sebastian,_

_I will keep this short as always, but for different reasons. My hand is trembling and I can think of nothing good to say._

_Do you remember Miss Felicity Smoak? She i ~~s~~ was housekeeper of Queen's Manor before you left. She is dead, Sebastian._

_Oliver, or Mr. Queen as you know him, has grown to be a trusted friend. Our circle has grown after all, with him and Felicity included within its boundaries. He loves Felicity as I love Len. I cannot imagine his pain. He left a scant two hours before I sat down to write this, accompanied by his sister and friends. I will miss them. I will miss Felicity._

_Len is knocking on my door, most likely to check on me. I have not been well since Felicity's funeral. Funeral—I can hardly stand to hear that word now._

_Please come home, Sebastian. If only for a little while...please come home._

_Bartholomew_

Bartholomew knew Felicity Smoak? Knew Oliver Queen? Barry's head spins.

He paws through more letters, all to Sebastian. Two more people feature in the "circle," a Cisco Ramon and Caitlin Snow, both employees at the manor. Beyond that, while Leonard Snart's flaws are pointed out in a few paragraphs, it's obvious to anyone who reads his words that Bartholomew adores the man. So why that letter? Why kill himself?

Barry focuses on that, instead of the disturbing portrait to his left. He looks through a few scientific journals. Each are filled with pressed flowers, chaotic notes, and surprisingly talented sketches of fauna, animals, and insects. He sifts through the photographs next, but there are only two, and they do _not_  help his nausea: the first has two adults, one man and woman, standing next to each other, most likely Bartholomew's parents. The second has not one, but two Barrys, with the same laughter in their eyes. Bartholomew and Sebastian, then.

In other words, absolutely nothing in this trunk helps solve the mystery. Guess it's just a regular haunted trunk that belonged to Barry's—triplet?

He's getting a headache.

With kind hands, Barry replaces the items in the trunk and clips it shut.

Someone sighs behind him and he nearly has a heart attack.

Barry whips around. He takes one look at his own face, slackened in surprise, and then—yeah. There he goes.

* * *

He wakes to see himself kneeling over him, brow creased with worry.

"I'm so sorry," Other-Barry says, "I didn't mean to frighten you. It's just that—well, no one has been able to see me in a very long time. But you're probably wondering why we look so much alike. I swear we are not the same person. I'm Bartholomew, Bartholomew Allen. A pleasure to meet you."

Barry makes a faint "guh" noise.

Bartholomew frowns (is that  _really_ what he looks like?). "Here, let me help you up."

For a ghost, he's surprisingly solid, even warm. Once Barry can stand on his own, Bartholomew backs up and shakes their hands with a bright grin. With a jolt, Barry takes in what he's wearing: it isn't the same outfit from the portrait, but a scarlet red ensemble that would probably cost more than what Joe West could make in five years.

The coat is neatly buttoned, every wrinkle smoothed out so Barry can see the thin strikes of golden, jagged lines along the upper arms, waist, and coattails. They almost look like lightning bolts. Underneath is a striped waistcoat that follows the same gold and red scheme, ascot tucked perfectly in over a white shirt. Bartholomew's boots aren't that high on his legs, reaching halfway to his knees, and looking at them, Barry can see that they are, quite literally, floating about an inch off the floor.

However, that effect would be expected, since this is an actual _ghost_ we're talking about. What makes cold horror slither up Barry's spine is when his eyes finally drift to the golden gloves. Bartholomew is carrying a mask of the same color in his free hand.

It clicks with awful finality. _He's dressed for a masquerade._

"I must say," he says, stirring Barry from his morbid observations, "it's wonderful to talk to another person again. Even if it is someone who looks just like me. I hope this isn't a hallucination of some sort. Can the dead hallucinate, do you think?"

He rambles just like Barry. Shakes hands just like Barry. Smiles just like Barry.

"How is this possible?"

Bartholomew shakes his head, contrite. "I'm afraid I don't know. I heard you, though, while I was wandering about—Allen, yes? Maybe we're related. I realize," he interrupts Barry, "that doesn't explain the frankly terrifying resemblance. If I had to guess, it might be the curse."

"The—the what?"

Bartholomew sighs. "I should start from the beginning. Just—stay still."

"What are you—"

_The party was in full swing by the time he finished the letter. Cheerful music echoed along every beautiful crevice of Queen's Manor, coupled by the voices of numerous guests. His letter was signed and sealed as quickly as he could; the cacophony would be more than enough to hurry his intended recipient's entrance._

_With quick steps, he traversed the maze of hallways with a sure gait. After all this time, he knew this mansion like the back of his hand - this route in particular he knew by heart. An excited grin lit his face as he slipped his letter under the door. Just as he heard movement beyond, he made for the library as fast as he could._

_He was greeted by a familiar face. "Oh! How are you?"_

_The other replied they were quite well, Mr. Allen. And what of himself?_

_"I'm..." Mr. Allen - Bartholomew, actually - blushed a happy scarlet. "I'm actually great. Really, really great."_

_He told the other what transpired just last night, and what he had planned for this celebration. The other expressed delighted surprise, as well as their approval. Surely such an occasion warranted a glass of the very best port?_

_"Would you? Thank you so much!"_

_They would return shortly, then._

_A minute later, they returned and poured the wine. To happy evenings, they toasted. He laughed again, clinking their glasses. Adjusting his mask, he found the correct angle so he could take a large gulp. He would need it, after all; he and nerves did not mix._

_Then...he couldn't breathe._

_Hand flying to his neck, he tried to breathe, breathe,_ please, breathe _, to no avail. Spots appeared at the edges of his vision. No...no, he was...he had to see..._

_Wide eyes met impassive ones. How could they...he thought..._

_The clock struck midnight, and Bartholomew collapsed, the goblet still clutched in his gloved hand._

_An anguished cry drowned the music and laughter. And then, there was only silence._

Barry doubles over as Bartholomew releases him, hacking coughs forcing their way out of his throat as much as he tries to breathe.

"You didn't look hard enough," Bartholomew says, somber, "at the very bottom. It was hidden."

" _What_ —?"

"Look again. Please."

Barry recovers enough to tell him where exactly he can shove whatever 'it' is. But then he looks at Bartholomew's pleading eyes and, damn it, he can't.

"Fine," he he mutters, and returns to the trunk.

Under Bartholomew's direction, he finds what he's meant to be looking for.

"What is it with you and red?" he asks, taking out said red envelope.

Bartholomew smiles, yet—shit, it's so  _sad_. "My favorite color, and a nickname."

"Someone called you Red?"

The reply is so soft, Barry almost doesn't hear it: "Scarlet, actually."

Oh. Must've been Len's nickname. Great. Way to go, Allen.

Barry opens the envelope. Inside, a letter written in gold ink (how rich  _was_ this family?). He reads it out loud, even though Bartholomew's the one who wrote it.

_Dearest Len,_

_I applaud your rare moment of chivalry, but from the moment you left so unceremoniously the other evening I've been unable to think of any other answer. You were wrong; I need no time to think. For me, there is no other decision._

_Yes. Of course I will marry you. I know I will never be able to tell anyone outside of our circle, but I don't care. I love you more than life itself._

_Come to our library. I await you there. Don't keep me waiting!_

_Forever Yours,_

_Barry_

Same nickname. Awesome. Not relevant though, because—"This means...you didn't kill yourself."

Bartholomew's face breaks into a tearful grin. "I never thought I'd hear someone say that.  _No_ , I didn't kill myself! I was about to marry the love of my life!"

Barry stares at the letter. "Someone gave Leonard Snart the wrong letter. But who was it? I couldn't see their face. It was all—blurred."

"Well, I can't remember them. No matter how hard I try, and believe me, I've tried."

"Wait." Barry's eyes narrow. "Those weird dreams, everything that's happened—that was  _you_?"

Bartholomew at least looks ashamed. "Sorry," he says, "I had to get you to understand the truth in case you couldn't find the real letter."

"Why didn't you just send me the night you were poisoned, then? Or, better idea, send those—memories to one of your friends?"

"I wanted to ease you into it! Such a traumatic event isn't something you lead with! As for the transference, I've tested it on every scant visitor we've had. It only works on the living."

"What about Lisa, then?" Bartholomew replies with a 'please-tell-me-you're-not- _that_ -stupid' look. "Wait..."

"'Family name,'" Bartholomew smiles, "that's what she said, right? I'm afraid that isn't the whole truth."

Barry steadies himself against the wall. "Lisa's a ghost."

"Yes."

"And Mick?"

"Also dead."

"What about Lisa's brother?"

Bartholomew tenses, turning his gaze to his boots. After a heavy moment, jaw clenching, he murmurs, "Lisa's brother and my Len are the same person. Unfortunately, he also died before his time. I-I tried to tell him not to do it..." he looks back at Barry, eyes filling with phantom tears. "I _screamed_ at him," he whispers, "I did everything I could, but I cou-I couldn't touch anything. I was forced to watch, helpless, while he..." a sob escapes his lips. "Forgive me."

Barry puts a tentative hand on his shoulder. "No," he says, "you watched the man you love kill himself. Far as I'm concerned, if that's not a reason to cry, I don't know what is."

Still, Bartholomew turns around and composes himself. Barry waits patiently, rubbing soothing circles on his back. It's not surprising when Bartholomew sinks into the touch; if he's really gone so long without it, then Barry's only surprised he hasn't been attacked with a hug already.

After about two minutes, Bartholomew turns back around. His eyes are red—apparently ghosts can get that—but he's smiling again. "I know you said it was alright," he says, "but I am going to apologize one more time. I always see him...dangling there, whenever I close my eyes. Thinking about it, however, I've never actually said anything aloud."

Barry winces. "I get it. So, you showed me—that. That happened. But why are you talking about a curse?"

Bartholomew seems grateful for the change of subject. "Tell you what," he says, "why don't I take you to my room and we can talk about it there? I'm sure it will be much more comfortable than this place."

As if on cue, another gust of wind makes Barry shiver. "Lead the way."

"I'll warn you though, no one else can see me but yourself. It's best not to talk outside of my room; even the walls have ears."

Somehow, Barry doesn't doubt that, but—"How come only I can see you?"

"In good time, my friend. Follow me."

* * *

Barry plops onto the red sheets. "So the portrait Mick took was yours?"

Bartholomew hums absently. Once he saw his books, he made a beeline for them. Now his fingers hover almost reverently along their spines. "Len commissioned it. I hated every minute of it—couldn't sit still. Especially when he and our other friends kept visiting, trying their best to make me laugh behind the poor artist's head." A fond, wistful smile crosses his face. "It has been too long since I've spoken with any of them."

"What if Lisa or Mick hear me talking?" Barry asks, quelling the urge to rush to Bartholomew and attack him with a hug himself.

Bartholomew grins. "A house with this much history and trapped spirits becomes a living thing, Barry. Len is connected to every crevice, and everyone under him wanders as they wish—except for this room. Mick was only allowed to enter because he was escorting you inside, and you look exactly like me. Queen's Manor is the only one, besides me, who knows the truth. She likes me."

"The house...likes you." Bartholomew gives an eager nod. Barry sighs, "Why not? Ghosts are real, might as well throw in living houses."

"That's the spirit!" Bartholomew crows, only to start laughing. "I swear I didn't plan that pun. Len has been a terrible influence on me."

Just like that, his smile dissipates. Barry shifts on the bed, uncomfortable in the ensuing quiet.

"You miss him, don't you?" he murmurs.

"I miss everyone," Bartholomew replies instantly, "but him, yes, of course I do. Every day. Sometimes I sit with him, you know. He hardly ever leaves his room. I had been hoping, with your arrival and our—" he gestures between himself and Barry, "that he would emerge from his cave, but so far, I have once again hoped in vain. So we will just have to visit him instead."

"Wait, what?"

"The curse!" Bartholomew exclaims, "I'll explain that to you to the best of my abilities."

"Okay, great, but what was that you said about—"

"Barry, hush. I said I'll explain. Now then," he begins to pace, hands clasped around the mask behind his back; "the night I died, I woke to find Len weeping over my body. I tried to speak to him, touch him, but as I've told you, I can do neither. Yet I know for a fact the curse didn't start with my death, although that is certainly the catalyst which caused the event leading to it—namely, Len's..." he pauses. "Len's actions." The pace picks right back up. "As soon as Len's spirit found itself trapped, something dark cloaked this mansion. I can't explain it better than that. It was as if a shroud had overtaken us. Queen's Manor has seen plenty of tragedy in her long existence, so I had to wonder: what makes this one different?

"Obviously without being able to touch anything, there was little I could do to figure this out. All I knew was something dark had encompassed us, and everyone still left alive quickly joined Len and myself. Until a scientist Mr. Snart kept around for purposes I'd rather not think about told Lisa that obviously they shouldn't be looking for a scientific explanation. In the library, there are some archaic books no one dared touch until Lisa and Dr. Wells—the scientist—pulled them from their places."

"What did they find?" asks Barry.

Bartholomew's smile is brittle. "That the number thirteen is an absolute bitch."

They laugh. Barry asks what he's talking about.

"I'm sure you've read stories as a child—fairy tales about true love and kisses breaking evil spells, what have you?" Barry nods. "Well, here's the thing about true love, Barry: it is romanticized for a reason. True love is something you should want to have, because if you refuse it, attempt to tear it apart, it becomes a curse."

"What does that have to do with the number thirteen?"

"Queen's Manor has had inhabitants separate true love thirteen times. The most recent were the final three: Oliver Queen and Felicity Smoak, Lisa Snart and Cisco Ramon, and finally, myself and Len."

Barry starts. "Lisa and...?"

Bartholomew softens. "They were mad about each other. Mr. Snart separated them, beating Cisco and making Lisa watch before confining him to the cellars."

"What a dick!"

"Yes he was. Be thankful he died before this curse; you would  _not_ want to have him running around. That masquerade was to be a cover for them. Len had given his blessing for them to wed, yet none of us could blame them for wishing to elope. They'd don masks, say their goodbyes, then leave the party with no one being the wiser." Bartholomew sighs. "Sometimes I think, if I had just held onto life a few moments more—"

Barry shakes his head vehemently. "Don't do that to yourself. It's not your fault, none of this is. We're gonna fix this, as soon as you tell me how."

He gets a bright smile in return. "Of course. Anyway, once true love found itself thwarted for the thirteenth time, it twisted into a curse, trapping the souls living in Queen's Manor until its intendeds were reunited. Since the previous ten instances came together in the afterlife, that left only the three instances here. For us, they are all romantic pairs, and each was separated as punishment to all. Everyone had to learn their lesson, I suppose. That is the nature of this curse as far as I can tell."

"Okay...but how do we stop it?"

Bartholomew shrugs, "Reunite us. Which is where you come in. You freed Oliver from the mausoleum—"

"I did  _what_ —"

"You did; I saw it. You opened those doors like they were only doors, not enchanted locks. Which is why I must ask you to do something."

Judging by his face, this 'something' wasn't going to be good. "What is it?"

"I need you to let me possess your body."

Barry's mouth drops. "Do  _what_?"

Bartholomew hurries to add, "I know it sounds horrible, but I promise I will make it as painless as possible—"

"No, no, no," Barry shoots up from the bed, "I'll help you, just not like that. 

"I've considered every other possibility. It will be fine, Barry, I swear."

"We'll come up with something else," Barry insists, though he can see Bartholomew's becoming visibly agitated.

"Like what? The moment Len sees you, he is going to think that you're  _me_! Everyone else already does!"

That would explain a lot about Lisa and Mick's behavior. Regardless, Barry shakes his head. "Look...Bartholomew. Maybe we can get him to see you instead."

He instantly regrets saying that.

Bartholomew starts  _sparking_ from head to toe, as if he's being electrocuted twice over. Even his eyes are crackling with lightning, angry yellow.

Oh fuck. Barry's pissed off a spirit.

" _You don't think I've tried?!_ " Bartholomew roars, voice practically vibrating with rage, " _I have lived with this loneliness for over a century! I have waited and planned and waited again! You're afraid? You don't know the meaning of fear! Why don't I teach you?"_

Barry screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kurt's the guy's name, right? Everytime I look up Sebastian on AO3, that's his top pairing.
> 
> I know, total shit stuff. But shhh, the Haunted Mansion movie's very similar, I swear.
> 
> But that aside, I bet you're all thinking to yourselves: it's been four (technically five) chapters. Where tf is Captain Cold?
> 
> Well, this section of the story is going to be called Named Chapters, starting, obviously, with Bartholomew. Guess who's next?


	6. V: Len

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion—of sorts—and then the truth comes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bartholomew's costume description last chapter has been edited to fit [this amazing fanart](http://kirakitetine.tumblr.com/post/133113469287/on-the-contrary-lisa-says-a-snart-carried-his) done by [kirakitetine!](http://kirakitetine.tumblr.com/) Len's costume is also going to fit that piece, because trust me when I say those costume are 10000000x better than mine. Go check it out! It's amazing!!!

Bartholomew has confronted the prospect of twisting into a vengeful spirit many times over the years. The loneliness, isolation, and sheer anger surrounding his situation, no matter how hard he's fought them, had been creeping into his soul slowly but surely. (Like a poison, he thinks bitterly.)

And yet, he has never fully turned until now.

The sensations are exhilarating, and Bartholomew hates himself for relishing in them (which, ironically, makes them worse). At last he has let go of that hope in him—the hope that has never delivered, never returned to him what he has lost. (And oh, has he lost.) Despair comes in its place, almost a relief. He can give up now, surrender this horrible never-ending uphill battle.

Barry's screams fuel the emptiness inside of him like fine wine.

 _"I don't need your consent, Barry,"_ he hisses even while torn between the addictive savagery and wishing he could destroy himself,  _"I can just_ take  _what I want!"_

The air is deliciously electrified; Bartholomew can almost  _taste_ it. (Taste it like Len's lips, Len, who wouldn't want— _who knows what he wants? We could ask him_ _—_ no, not _—_ _yes_ —no—!) _  
_

Unfortunately, Barry has stopped screaming. (Good, he can get away— _no, don't go, we're about to have_ fun—run, Barry— _don't_ — _RUN!_ )

"This isn't you!" (Barry, please—do  _go on, this will be good_ —no, no, go, escape—!) "Please—"

The door bursts open. Every jolt of electricity leaves Bartholomew as quickly as they came.

"L-Len?"

Of course Len doesn't hear him. (Len never hears him.)

Fuck, he still looks the same—Bartholomew's never seen him without his blankets, not once in over a century—paler, sicker, yes, but...how strange it is. Spirits manifest in the clothes they died in, yet Len's costume is what he wore the night Bartholomew was killed: black boots, trousers, and shirt; the waistcoat of light blue with swirling designs sewn in that Lisa paid to have made specially for him; his favorite navy blue coat reaching his knees, soft brown fur making up its collar and most of its lapels; and a grey ascot, whose color causes the diamond-encrusted snowflake broach pinned there to stand out just so.

Bartholomew had given him that broach. Costed him an arm and a leg, but Len's little smile when he saw it had been worth every cent.

Because, or perhaps in spite of his deathly pallor, Len's blue eyes shine twice as vividly under the lamplight. Bartholomew had almost forgotten how intense they are. Len has dwelt in the dark paces of this mansion for so long, lurking like a ghoul instead of a human's spirit. Now though, he is finally back in the light.

Back to cradle Barry's face in his hands and demand what was wrong. Was he alright.

_What was he looking at. There's nothing there. Nothing there._

_Nothing._

The emptiness gapes open in Bartholomew's soul, roaring like a wounded animal. But he doesn't want to sink so low again—he doesn't want to hurt anyone, least of all Barry, who might well be his descendant and his only hope of rescue. Len could help; he always has a plan in place, always something to say or do.

Fingertips twitching with sparks, Bartholomew falls to his knees beside Len and reaches out.

"Len," he gasps, desperately fighting off the sweet violence trickling into his mind, "Len, please—help—"

His hand passes right through.

Bartholomew recoils, curling around his hand as if injured. Tears prick his eyes. They disappear before hitting the carpet.

A flash, a pained cry, and he's gone.

* * *

Barry's heart aches. Bartholomew's gone, and he has no idea where he could begin to search for him.

 _Fuck_. The way he'd  _looked_ at Leonard Snart...as if he'd found the solution to all of his problems, as if the man had hung the moon. How many times could someone have their hopes dashed before they turned into—whatever that was, for good?

"—okay?"

Barry still can't believe Snart's—Leonard's?—actually in the room. Lisa had been right about his not being well; Barry didn't know spirits could look sick or exhausted, but Leonard is definitely both, right down to the heavy bags under his eyes. His very blue eyes.

Yeah, Barry can see the physical appeal.

Leonard seems to take his silence as Barry realizing his face is practically being cradled. He immediately removes his hands.

"Why were you screaming?" he asks. The question brings Bartholomew's heartbroken expression back to mind.

In lieu of answering, Barry holds out his hand. "Lisa's brother, right? I'm Barry."

Leonard hesitates, a hard look rippling through his face. Nevertheless, he nods and takes Barry's hand— _shit_ , he's cold.

"Call me Len," he says, something unmistakably hopeful quirking his lips.

 _He's going to think that you're me._ Bartholomew wasn't kidding. Barry wants nothing more than to come right out and tell Leonard he's not who he thinks he is, but he doesn't want to risk pissing off yet another one of these ghosts. He'll have to show him instead.

The red envelope burns a hole in Barry's pocket. Can't take it out yet, though. Bartholomew has to be found first, so Leonard can see the whole truth with his own eyes. Where could he—

Oh wow. Oh  _wow,_ he is such an idiot. Of course he would go—okay. Now Leonard just has to get there, because if Bartholomew isn't in  _their library_ , Barry is going to hit himself across the head with a hard cover.

How to get him there without arousing suspicion? Should he just ask? No, that would bring up questions to which he can't find viable answers. Should he just start walking? Again, more questions. Leonard might even hold him back.

There's really only one way he can think of that's almost completely foolproof. Barry just really hopes he doesn't get killed for this.

Nerves spiking, Barry lets the memories Bartholomew sent him flood his mind. When they were in their library, the conservatory, the couch...he allows those feelings of love and affection pour into him as best he can. It'll help that Leonard— _Len_ —more than likely wants to believe the charade. Barry hopes Bartholomew will understand.

"Len..." he tilts his head, making a show of taking in the costume Len's wearing. Hesitantly, he brushes his fingers across Len's cheek; the spirit stiffens, surprised.

"What are you doing?" Len asks, hard and quiet. Barry swallows.

"Sorry, I—have we met before?"

There it is. Hope, swiftly crushed beneath the surface, but hope nonetheless. "Why do you ask?"

Here we go. Barry stumbles back, one hand still raised between them. He mumbles, " _Myosotis scorpioides_."

"What?"

Barry repeats it louder, adding, "Forget-me-nots. It's-it's the scientific name for forget-me-nots." the hand between them goes to clutch his head. "I said I'd never forget you. I said I  _couldn't_ —"

"What are you talking about?" Len asks, still firm. The only things letting Barry know he's buying it are the clenched fists at his sides.

"The library," Barry gasps, "our library, I-I told you—I have to tell you—" he takes two aborted steps. "I...I can't even remember the way."

Len's cold hand takes his own. He doesn't say anything as he leads Barry out of the room.

The concept of a living house becomes startlingly believable when they don't even go to the stairs to find the library. Len explains, "Even if you did remember, it wouldn't be in the same place."

He opens the doors without waiting for an answer. Barry almost forgets to keep his jaw from dropping.

The library has two floors dedicated completely to books. A ladder's set in place against a landing so someone could navigate both stories. It's a long, rectangular room with an arched ceiling. On the far left wall is that detailed fireplace from Bartholomew's memories. Situated around it are two plush chairs, and the couch Leonard was lying across, table still in front of it. The door opens right next to the fireplace.

Barry nearly loses his footing when he follows Len inside. Books litter the floor as much as they crowd the shelves. He's resigned to watching his own feet until they reach the couch.

"Why are we really here?"

Len's question startles him. "What?"

Barry looks up to find Len's gaze fixed on their hands. He sighs quietly.

"Why do you think I haven't come to see you tonight?"

"Uh..."

Len's mouth quirks. Unspeakable sadness washes through his eyes. "I know you're not my Barry." he pauses before saying those two words—my Barry—as if he almost can't bring himself to say them. "I can't explain it, but...when I look at you, I just know you're not him. So tell me, kid: why are we really here?"

He...he doesn't  _look_ mad. That's something, at least. Barry bites his lip, instantly guilty. "I'm so sorry," he rushes to say, "I didn't mean to—"

Len holds up a hand. "Answer the question." 

Barry stutters some nonsense, craning his head. Where is—he should  _be here_ —

Another sigh, louder this time. Then Len's standing up. Just as Bartholomew's fades into view. Barry snatches Len's wrist with a triumphant shout.

"Wait!" he cries, "I have something to show you!"

"Look, I don't know how you knew about the forget-me-not story," Len replies, taking on a more aggressive stance, "but you clearly do, so, I hope I don't have to remind you that you look exactly like the man I—" he lets out a harsh breath. "I don't want to have to make you let me go."

Barry shoots up from the couch, careful not to bump into the table. "Bartholomew never left you," he babbles, "I-I know this is gonna sound strange, but you have to believe me: he didn't kill himself." Len's eyes flash. For a moment, his skin almost appears to be made of solid ice. Barry's hands shake, but he soldiers on, reaching into his pocket. "Someone gave you the wrong letter! Look!"

He all but shoves the envelope at him. Bartholomew makes a choked noise.

Len's jaw works. "That letter," he says, voice sounding like hissing ice, "was written in his hand. I'd know it anywhere."

"Well this one's actually written in his hand, so," Barry shivers from the sudden chill in the room, "just—read it."

Silence falls. Len scowls at Barry, harsh and unyielding, but he's got another thing coming if he thinks Barry's backing down from this. Seconds pass like minutes; during them, Bartholomew holds his breath, taking slow, cautious steps until he's at Len's side. His is the only movement in the room.

Finally, Len turns his eyes to the envelope. Barry breathes with Bartholomew as he takes out the letter and unfolds it.

How to describe his reaction? It's an entire kaleidoscope of emotions. Barry's not at all surprised; the reason Len died is now being revealed to him over a century later as a lie. If he's really a criminal as Lisa implied, then he's probably the type for revenge. In other words, he died without avenging the murder of the person he loved enough to want by his side for the rest of their lives. You can see it all play out on Len's face, the shock causing him to forget to hide his emotions: confusion, anger, regret, sadness, heartbreak,  _what-have-I-done_.

"Where—" Len swallows the sudden rasp in his voice, "where did you get this?"

Bartholomew sags. His smile is achingly sad, but relieved. At least now, Len knows the truth.

Barry replies by pointing his thumb over his shoulder and saying, "From his trunk. It just kind of—opened for me. I didn't find it without help."

"It opened..." Len processes the rest of what he said. "Help?"

A tentative smile brightens Barry's face. "Yeah," he says, "Bartholomew. Er, Barry, I guess. He told me to keep looking."

Something shudders through Len. "What the  _fuck_ are you talking about?"

And the smile's gone. "I mean—he never left. He's been here the whole time, you just...can't see him."

He says to  _the ghost_. Shit. 

Bartholomew winces on his behalf. "You tried," he says, patting Barry's shoulder—before wrenching back as if burned. "Sorry, I—"

Len unknowingly interrupts: "Obviously I don't believe you, but I'll humor you. Say I did. Where is he, then?"

Barry looks to Bartholomew, hating the resignation on the other's eyes. "He's standing right here. Kinda looks like you told him he's never going to hold a puppy again."

His attempt to lighten the mood is only kind of supported by Bartholomew's quiet snort and definitely shot down by Len's glare.

"I don't know what you're playing at," Len snarls, taking a menacing step towards him, "but you better stop before someone gets hurt."

His skin is turning to ice again. Barry trips over his own feet trying to get away. Of course he actually trips over some books behind him. Thankfully, Bartholomew saves him from getting a bump on the head by catching the front of his shirt.

"Thanks," he huffs, gripping Bartholomew's arm. He's offered a weak smile in return.

Wait a minute.

Barry starts laughing, almost hysterical. "I can't believe I didn't think—I'm really off my game tonight."

Bartholomew's eyebrows furrow. "What do you mean?" he asks.

Barry answers by turning back to Len.

Len, who's staring right at Bartholomew like the sky just opened and light is pouring through.

" _Barry_?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being a little late. Again, I'm making this up as I go along, so sometimes it takes a bit to figure out the chapter layouts and where the plot's actually going. I swear I have an idea of where this is heading. Honest.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for actually giving this a chance. I hope you like it, Your Trashesty :)


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